Not with a whimper, but with a bang
by Delenn
Summary: It's the last night on earth. At least, for Sherlock Holmes, it certainly feels that way. Dinner?


**Disclaimer: Too many brilliant people own these characters to name. I'm just playing with the BBC's versions. I promise to return them when I'm done.**

**Rating: Mature**

**Author's Notes: Post "The Reichenbach Fall". If there was ever going to be a last night on earth for Sherlock Holmes, certainly this would be it. Another of my visions for what happens during the Great Hiatus. **

**Summary: It's the last night on earth. At least, for Sherlock Holmes, it certainly feels that way. Dinner?**

**Written: November 24****th****, 2012 - July 14****th****, 2013.**

* * *

**Not with a whimper, but with a bang**

_I'm not dead. Let's have dinner. - SH_

Irene's breath catches in her throat. She tries to tell herself that it's mostly from relief that he's not dead after all (not that she ever believed that utter rubbish on the telly), but she knows this particular text implies a lot more than just being alive. A lot more than just her own words parroted back at her.

It's on the tip of her fingers to type back: _Is it the last night on earth after all?_

She stops herself just in time. Of course it is. This is Sherlock Holmes. Disgraced. Dead, by all accounts. Of course it's the end of his world.

He's just jumped from the top of St. Bart's this morning and now he's texting her about dinner.

Irene has to choke back what sounds suspiciously like a hysterical laugh. Instead, she forces her fingers to type the expected reply. It's always a game of cat and mouse between them, batting lines and intrigues and lives back and forth. What else can she say?

_I'm not hungry._

The answering ping is so fast that Irene is still fighting the traitorous feelings in her chest even as a smile tugs at her mouth.

_Good. -SH_

She manages to get herself under control just in time. She tosses on a (mostly sheer) dressing gown and runs her fingers through her hair. Distracting herself with battle armor. For, whatever else this will be, there will certainly be a battle.

There is an impatient knock at her door. Precise - each rap exactly two seconds apart - a short staccato against her hotel room.

Irene opens the door with one hand propped on a barely covered hip and her face artfully arranged into a sinful _come hither_.

Sherlock is leaning against the doorframe opposite of her, one hand behind his back and a truly astoundingly smug smirk on his face. Well, considering he's just successfully orchestrated and survived his own death, perhaps not so astounding.

He brushes by her and into the room without waiting to be invited, marching purposefully into the small living area.

Irene twists around to follow his movements, pressing her back against the door to close it and flicking the lock without looking.

Sherlock holds up a brown paper sack triumphantly. "Dinner?"

Insufferably smug. And where has he managed to find the time to stop for take away, between flying half way around the world and being dead? Somehow, she isn't surprised in the slightest.

Irene throws her head back and laughs, full throated and genuine. When she looks up again, Sherlock's eyes seem rather focused on her throat; his smirk is shifting from smugness to something else entirely. "I'm not hungry," Irene repeats slowly, sliding so close to him that she can watch her breath flutter his scarf.

She enjoys a brief shiver as she watches his eyes quickly dart down across her body. Again. Since when has Sherlock Holmes ever needed a second glance? Which logically implies that there are other reasons he is _observing_ her. Irene allows herself a moment of confidence, rocking ever so slightly up on her tiptoes, his coat brushing against her almost-bare legs.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches up, and then he takes one calculated step back, drops down onto her couch and begins placing Chinese take-away cartons onto her coffee table. His face is devoid of emotion again. All of five second have elapsed. "Good." Sherlock offers without looking at her, offhand. "I don't share well."

That sounds like a challenge. "But, since you've gone to such trouble..." Irene does her best to regroup. He wants to throw her off guard, certainly. Well, if he really wants to play that game. It's one she has no intention of letting him win.

Irene follows him to the couch, sitting far too close to make eating comfortable. The whole line of her body is pressed against his. He has yet to remove his coat, but that doesn't stop Irene's pulse from stuttering. This is the most physical contact they have had, and it is a heady feeling.

Never one to mind the moment, Sherlock shoots her an annoyed glare, but doesn't pull back.

Sometimes his stubbornness works in her favor. And he's playing right into her hand. She wonders if it's on purpose. After Karachi... Irene shakes off the memory in favor of leaning forward to pluck up the spare set of chopsticks and bring a dumpling to her mouth.

Her movements are deliberate and provocative, from the way she just brushes against his legs as she stretches, to the way she brings the dumpling past her lips. Irene has been told on more than one occasion that she makes an art out of seducing people through food. She'd always responded that she would rather use whips. Still. She prides herself on being able to control people's response to her through all mediums.

Sherlock's movements are stiffer than usual as he picks up his own chopsticks and digs through the cartons. His eyes stay resolutely on his food with more focus than she's sure he has ever put towards something as mundane as eating. But the slight twist to his mouth says that she'll have to try harder than that.

This time, when Irene leans forward, she brushes her breasts against his arm. Just to see what he'll do. This is Sherlock Holmes, and whatever game they are playing, it's not by the same rules she's used to. Even through his coat, the shock of contact reverberates up her spine. A single breath stumbles too fast from Sherlock's lips.

Irene raises her eyes to his. This is as bold as she's dared to be with him. Oh, she'd told herself it was a game then, too; that she was giving him his space because she didn't need to touch him to make him want her. But Irene has always told the best lies to herself. She hadn't touched Sherlock because she was afraid he wouldn't want her after all.

And even though her rescue in Karachi had taken most of the sting out of his dismissal in London, Irene has to admit that part of her is still scared of that rejection. She's hardly used to putting her heart into the mix, and the way it pounds reminds her that she's less in control than she'd like to be.

But when she meets Sherlock's eyes, they are full of fire behind the weariness she saw before. His breathing has returned to normal, as though that one hitch was a mere anomaly, but his body is statuesque in its stillness and his voice is low. "Are you seducing me, Miss Adler?"

Irene bites down on her insecurities as she bites her lip, every part of her responding to the promise in his voice. "I thought we were having dinner."

"Ah." Sherlock cocks his head at her for a moment before he sets his chopsticks down on the table with an exaggerated precision that is just a touch too deliberate to be deliberate.

Irene realizes with a start that they're more alike than she had realized. They are both masking their nerves with teasing and provocation. They both _want_. It's the nudge Irene needs to be the one to step off the ledge they're both hovering over. Besides, she always prefers to be in control.

"Oh, but where are my manners? You must be getting rather warm," Irene grabs Sherlock's lapels and swings her leg across his lap before he can even finish blinking at the non sequitur. Straddling him, she quickly unwinds his scarf and slides her hands under his coat to push it down his arms.

When his coat is puddled around them on the couch, Irene can't help but smother a chuckle. It's too much like the first time they met. Her, (practically) naked and straddling his lap, and Sherlock tense in his suit beneath her. Neither his suit nor her dressing gown provide much of a barrier, and she can feel the heat of his skin burning into her.

Their eyes are locked for long moments while they carry on a lively debate over the course of their next possible actions without actually speaking. She can watch Sherlock considering and discarding scenarios and retorts. John Watson isn't going to barge in to rescue him this time - at least she certainly hopes not.

Finally Sherlock snaps out, "My temperature is perfectly adequate. Though I fail to see what that has to do with anything."

It's a deflection, and a poor one at that for such a brilliant mind. A sharp retort bites at the back of her throat: he's playing at being obtuse again, and it doesn't suit him. Irene dismisses it immediately, amused. It's probably exactly what he expects her to say. Instead, she shifts closer, the spell of stillness broken by his words, and counters his harsh tone with one that is thoughtful and teasing. "Shall I warm you up?"

Her fingers are playing at the undone edges of his collar, just ghosting over bared skin.

Sherlock inhales sharply, but doesn't pull back.

Keeping her gaze steadily on his, Irene slowly begins to unbutton the crisp, dark fabric. The moment lingers, and it doesn't feel like a game anymore. It's too heavy, their gazes locked, the only sounds their breath and the soft rustle of fabric as she undoes his shirt.

As her hands work lower, Irene finds her eyes drawn with them, trailing the exposed skin in sharp contrast to Sherlock's blazer and shirt. She's a little scared of what Sherlock might see in her eyes if she lets him, more than a little scared of what she might see in his.

Irene slides her hands down his arms to unbutton his cuffs, realizing with something akin to shock that there is a faint tingling in her hands that implies they would like to tremble. She bites her lip harder, scolding herself for being ridiculous. This is hardly the time to lose control of herself. Sherlock would surely laugh at the sentiment. Some dominatrix she is – she hasn't even undressed the man and she's the one with weak knees.

When she finishes with his cuffs, feeling only a little more in control, Irene runs her hands back across to his shoulders, shoving off his shirt and jacket in one smooth motion and trailing her hands back down his bared arms as she goes.

As soon as Sherlock's wrists are free he grabs her arms and hauls her closer, forcing her to meet his eyes. Irene can feel them searching her; demanding to see into her soul. He doesn't seem concerned at being half-naked, but then this is the man who wore nothing but a sheet to Buckingham Palace – clearly nudity has never bothered either of them. There's something in his eyes but she can't place it, and she doesn't dare linger to draw out his secrets when she's too afraid he'll deduce all of hers.

Instead, Irene leans forward until her skin is brushing against his, sliding her hands against his arms in a parody of his grip on hers, only her dressing gown and his trousers between them. She watches in satisfaction as his eyes flutter shut when she presses her lips just to the corner of his mouth, dragging them across to whisper against his ear, "Feeling warmer?"

Sherlock turns his head ever-so-slightly, otherwise perfectly still under her. "I am highly unlikely to get warmer when you persist in removing my clothing." The words are typically sarcastic, but his voice is pitched lower, a soft exhale of amusement against her ear.

If he's trying to chastise her, he's missed his mark. Perhaps she's just becoming accustomed to him. Irene laughs gently. "Well then, I shall have to try harder."

Sherlock makes a non-committal noise, but he is suddenly far less passive; his hands release her to run along her arms, smoothing across the spots where his grip dug into her. "Do or do not, there is no try." His dry recitation cannot conceal his amusement, or the fact that he neglects to move back - leaving mere millimeters separating them.

Irene licks her lips, just brushing them against his ear in the process. "Excellent idea. Shall I do you then?"

Pulling back just enough so that she can properly read his expression, Irene expects his _obvious_ eye roll or some derisive comment about her twisting his words with innuendo. Instead, Sherlock surges forward - more than effectively ending the conversation as his mouth claims hers.

Not that it actually solves anything. The venue and methods merely shift - Sherlock's kiss is as demanding, confident and thorough of a barrage as his words have been.

Irene is anything but passive in response - her tongue battling with his for control over the kiss while her nails dig into his neck and shoulders, keeping him close. She has waited so long to crack his hard façade: she is not going to let up now that something - could it be _sentiment?_ - unrestrained passion, certainly - has finally slipped through.

She slides her hands into his hair at the same time as his move to hers, and presses their bodies flush, rocking her hips up and arching her chest against his.

The jolt of pure pleasure that shoots through her is unexpected enough to make her tug her mouth from Sherlock's with a breathless moan. Her nipples are caught against the suddenly rough lace of her dressing gown and the hard bare planes of his chest, and the undone tails of Sherlock's shirt are brushing against her thighs in the briefest hint of a caress.

Shivering, she presses closer and is pleased to find that she isn't the only one losing control of their considerable faculties. A low groan tears free from Sherlock's throat when she grinds against his length. He is pleasantly hard and not nearly as unaffected as he would prefer she believe.

She doesn't know what is more surprising: that Sherlock Holmes is so affected or how _affected_ that makes her. As far as she knows, Sherlock is never affected by anyone. Apparently, except her. And isn't that a heady feeling - to realize that they are one another's striking exceptions? This time she is the one stripping him bare and exposing the raw need underneath, and having so much control is going straight to her head in the most delicious ways.

Irene rocks against the obvious bulge in his trousers again and, from the heat suddenly burning in her belly and Sherlock's rough groan against her ear, they might as well be naked already.

Sherlock appears to have had the same idea. His hands push her dressing gown off her shoulders, undoing the ties with brisk efficiency. His gaze rakes over her as he undresses her, calculating, and it sends another shiver through her body. Irene threads one hand through his hair and braces the other against his shoulder and when she rocks forward again the only barrier between them is his trousers. Her whole body tingles with anticipation against his.

They maintain their scorching gaze as Sherlock's arms wrap around Irene's bare back and press her closer. Irene finds herself suddenly aflame where her skin meets his; she bites her lip and tightens her knees against his hips.

Sherlock's eyes dart down to her lips and it does nothing to quell the aching _want_ that is suffusing Irene's every thought. She can't remember the last time she lost her head so quickly (or at all) during sex, and she hesitates, almost frightened at how much more of herself she might lose with him. So much of this has been building for so long, and she still questions herself and him and whether sating their bodies will sate their minds.

Even at her fractional pause, Sherlock raises his eyes to hers once again. "Irene Adler. _The_ woman." He murmurs with a low, reverent chuckle and something that might actually be a soft smile.

He's not referring to her former title. It's a title and tribute unto itself, and it makes Irene's heart ache for a sharp beat. Until Sherlock's teeth tug at her lip where she had earlier, and then his mouth is on hers again, tongue demanding entry and parrying with hers until she takes up the challenge. Her doubts are being erased by the firm pressure of his mouth against hers - the conviction that Sherlock Holmes does not do anything unless he is 100% certain. And he is 100% certain about her. This. Them.

So certain, in fact, that his arms tighten; he stands abruptly - lifting her up effortlessly, as Irene wraps her legs around his waist, rakes her nails through his hair, and steers him with a sharp tug the two meters to the bed.

Sherlock deposits her gently on the duvet, bending neatly to remove his shoes and socks. When he straightens, his hands move to his trousers, though Irene doesn't miss the way they pause momentarily.

Biting down on her lip again, Irene arches an eyebrow and inquires, "Taking me to bed? You're assuming rather a lot, aren't you?"

"I never assume." His eyebrow rises to match hers, gaze unreadable, but his hands do not move to his zip.

Irene shifts to her knees, bringing one hand up to squeeze his delightfully hard length through his trousers. "Then by all means, continue."

She moves her hands up to his hair, tugging his mouth forcefully down to hers for an aggressive kiss - angling his mouth where she wants him, nipping and licking and sloppy with the heat building up between them.

With a wiggle and soft rustle of fabric just discernible over the roaring blood pounding in her ears, Irene notes that Sherlock has indeed shed his trousers. Grinning against his mouth, she maneuvers further up the bed, hauling him with her until she feels the bed dip with the weight of his knees.

And then she's sliding back against the bed, bringing him with her, until they're sprawled out pressed length to length, all glorious naked skin. Sherlock's cock presses up against her folds as he braces himself on his elbows, and Irene has to tear her mouth from his in a gasp.

Sherlock's mouth moves across her jaw with short nips as he shifts to one side, his other hand sliding down her body with clear purpose. Irene shivers and hears his low chuckle below her ear as his flingers sample the wetness at her sex. "It's not an assumption when there is ample evidence to support my conclusions."

He's smirking; Irene has half a mind to comment on his own clear state of arousal, but then his fingers are pausing at her entrance, requesting permission, and it's all Irene can do to tilt her hips up and demand more.

One of his long fingers slides inside of her just as she manages, "As always, Mr. Holmes, your powers of observation are unparalleled." She means it to be sarcastic, but if it comes out perhaps a little breathless, she can hardly be faulted for that.

His finger strokes in her slowly, with a teasing little twist at the end. Irene arches to kiss him again, her hand snaking down to give his cock a firm squeeze, her thumb sweeping over the leaking slit. Their entire relationship has been nothing but foreplay - if she's honest with herself, she's wanted him since the moment she first saw him.

Her point is well made. Sherlock grunts against her mouth, adding a second long finger and pumping them deftly into her, the teasing twist at the end suddenly much more pronounced. When they break for air, Irene finds her eyes squeezed shut, struck by the hot burning heat that is coiling rapidly through her. Sherlock's fingers curl inside her just so, and it's as though he's already memorized her body without ever having touched it before.

As if reading her mind, his voice is a deep chuckle at her ear, "Not going to give me directions, Ms. Adler? Or was this not quite what you expected." His fingers press harder into her, pushing deeper at the last word, dragging a keening gasp out of her.

As usual, he is proving his own points with no verbal confirmation required. Still. "Oh, you are anything but expected, Mr. Holmes."

Her one hand slides from his hair to rake across his shoulders and back, while her other grips his hip firmly. Irene's eyes flutter open, expecting to meet his intense gaze, but Sherlock's focus is on his fingers as they slide in and out of her sex, and Irene feels the heat in her body coalescing at the way he is watching them.

A ragged moan tears its way out of her throat. Sherlock glances up at her as though that was what he was waiting for, and then his fingers are increasing in speed, fingertips curled and pressing right up against her g-spot on the out stroke as his thumb comes up to circle her aching clit. Irene bucks her hips up against his hand, "Oh, _god._"

"Just Sherlock will do."

And he's smirking again, his voice deep and husky as he presses harder against her clit and digs his fingers against her and all the heat is exploding through Irene in a burst of light, his name on her lips as she comes.

Sherlock works her through her orgasm gently but possessively, his fingers dragging through her wetness until the last flutters have subsided. When the hotel room returns to focus, Irene blinks back up to find him sucking his own fingers into his mouth, eyes dark as he tastes her on them. "Fascinating."

He begins to shift down the bed, and she can tell that he has every intention of continuing that line of investigation. As much as the thought of that talented mouth on her makes her shudder, Irene shakes her head, the dominatrix in her slipping out, her voice commanding but full of promise. "Later."

The tone of her voice halts his progress, as Irene's hands reach out to drag him back to her mouth for another sloppy kiss, her tongue seeking out her own flavor.

Once her legs are steady again, Irene rolls Sherlock neatly to his back, straddling his stomach as she sits up and stretches across him to the nightstand drawer. Sherlock's hands come up to her hips to steady her with a firm grip, entirely purposefully shifting her back until his cock is brushing up against her bum.

She shuts the nightstand drawer before Sherlock can eye its very-well-stocked contents with interest and returns with a condom. She rises up on her knees and thrills slightly when Sherlock's hands do not release her, though he is clearly ceding control as he follows her movements with heavy-lidded eyes.

His thumb traces the line of her hip almost gently as she tears open the wrapper and takes him in hand, sheathing his cock in latex with brisk efficiency and an entirely unprofessional twist to her wrist as she strokes her hand back up.

Irene hovers there for a moment, inexplicably nervous. _It's just sex_ she chastises herself, knowing even as the words cross her mind that she's lying to herself. This is Sherlock, and nothing about their relationship has ever been _just_ anything.

They stay frozen for a moment, and then Sherlock is sitting up, reaching for her and drawing her down for another kiss. This one somehow deeper than those before - full of all the words and insecurities and meanings that neither of them are willing to voice.

His hand strokes along her back, fingertips skittering lightly across the bumps of her spine. Irene presses her body flush against his and cannot suppress the shiver of heat that snakes through her at the contact. There is something about knowing that this is Sherlock's body pressed against her own - Sherlock stripped bare against hers - that sends lust sparking and flaring through her in a way that no other - man or woman - ever has. It's terrifying, but it feels too good to stop. And Irene has never been one to deny herself pleasure.

This time, when Sherlock pulls back to search her eyes, she lets him - eagerly reading his responses in his eyes and body while they both catch and lose their breath again.

They're still locked within one another's gaze as Irene tilts her hips, reaching one hand between them to guide his cock into her as his hand stills, splayed across the small of her back. Neither of them breathes for a moment, the silence buzzing around them as she slowly takes him in, sinking down until her hips are flush against his.

It is sex as a revelation and Irene never even believed such a thing was possible - scoffed at the mere idea. But Sherlock's eyes are searing into her, full of words and passions that are startling in their intensity and that she can see reflected in her own. Irene sucks in a breath and rocks her hips up and then the wave of heat is coursing through her, washing over all those tricky _sentiments_.

Irene's hands brace across Sherlock's chest, nails scraping, and his hands guide her hips before running along her breasts and back and up to tangle in her hair, their mouths clashing with strangled moans. She rocks against him, picking up speed as his hips meet hers stroke for stroke.

It's a blur of hands and mouths and moans and gasps as their skin slides against one another, slick with perspiration and the heat simmering between them. Irene's knees sink into the soft mattress, toes curling into the bedding as she takes him in over and over again, their hips rocking in a rhythm that threatens to steal her breath again.

Irene rips her mouth from his, gasping at air as sits up, twisting her hips. She runs her hands up her own body, pausing to palm her breasts and not missing the way Sherlock groans as his hands slide back to her hips, fingers digging into her arse.

Slowly, Irene's lips curve in a smile that she knows is utterly wicked. Maintaining eye contact, her hips still undulating, Irene arches her back and brings her arms up behind her head. Deliberately slow, she holds her hair with one hand while the other pulls out three hairpins, one at a time, dropping them on Sherlock's chest with a look that promises everything.

Sherlock glances down at the pins and back up to meet her eyes, raising an expectant eyebrow. Never one to disappoint, Irene quickly brings her hands down and, with one rolling full body twist, her hair cascades free, brushing her shoulders, breasts, back in loose ringlets.

One of Sherlock's hands immediately snakes up to tangle and tug at her hair, and Irene rolls with it. Grinding hard against him on the down-stroke until her clit presses deliciously into the friction, and letting his hands tug her down faster, harder, driving him deeper.

Then the heat is racing out across her limbs while expanding exponentially where they're joined, and Irene feels Sherlock tensing under her. His fist tightens in her hair and Irene arches herself all the way back, trusting him to balance her as she rolls her hips and grinds down, taking him as deep as she can in short, hard strokes, the angle catching perfectly and shooting sparks of white-hot pleasure through her.

Irene brings her hand to her clit, circling it with a few quick motions before she's shattering above Sherlock, eyes pressed tightly shut as she keens and falters slightly in her rhythm.

Sherlock follows right behind her, thrusting up into her with abandon for a few last strokes before she can feel him pulsing inside her, his moan loud even above the blood pounding in her ears and sex.

They collapse together as one, his hands detangling from her hair as Irene falls forward, lips melting together in a lazy, blissful tumble as their pulses race and bodies still.

Irene allows herself a moment to bask in the afterglow before she parts reluctantly from him, rolling off to the side of the bed and giving them both a moment to pull themselves together, tossing away a hairpin pressed against her sticky skin. Irene keeps her eyes on the ceiling and tries to hold back the sudden wave of sentiment she can feel rushing into all the places where lust previously blazed.

Sherlock moves away from her, quickly disposing of the condom in the rubbish bin. He flops back to the bed with an exhausted huff, but doesn't turn back towards her. Irene tries to banish the horrible sinking feeling. "What changed your mind?" The words slip out against her will.

Irene keeps her eyes on the ceiling as she feels the shift in the bed as Sherlock faces her, his voice sharp if somewhat rough, "What?"

"About dinner."

He is silent long enough that Irene turns to face him, propping herself up on one elbow to discover that the gap between them is smaller than she'd expected.

Sherlock appears to be lost in thought, mulling over her question. Irene watches him, waiting. Trying not to hold her breath as she wonders at his answer. Trying not to admit that she's equally terrified of both options.

Finally, his eyes clear. Sherlock's focus returns to her, gaze stripping her bare well past her obvious nakedness. "My work is all that matters to me. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Everything else is just a distraction." He pauses meaningfully, wry. "But today, Sherlock Holmes is dead."

Irene chews on her lips and considers the implications. She was not wrong that this is the end of his world, at least. It doesn't answer the question of what this means, but something in his eyes stops her from coiling in on herself and spitting out some defensive barb. Besides, once upon a time, Irene had felt the same way. It was all sex and games and power-plays, and _sentiments_ never entered into it. She chooses her words carefully, "Just for today?"

Sherlock sighs and she can clearly see the exhaustion bleeding through his pores. It's far worse than she'd expected, and it tugs at her formerly non-existent heart to realize what this deception has cost him. "Just for today," he confirms, hand trudging through his hair as his eyes narrow, "there's always more work to be done. I have to clear my good name, after all." She doesn't miss the bitterness.

Irene purses her lips and observes, "It's a dangerous game you're playing. Making everyone believe you're dead."

Sherlock's eyes catch hers. He reaches across the gap, hand coming to rest against her cheek. "Not everyone."

"Ooh, am I special then?" She manages to keep it light, aloof to hide the wobble in her voice, but Irene can feel her heart racing traitorously.

Sherlock's brows crinkle, and then he's tugging her into him, rolling them so that she's once again resting on his chest. He squeezes her to him in a way that very much says that Irene is special, one hand lacing idly around her wrist. "You're -" he swallows and she can see the sentiment awash in his face before dry humor replaces it, "experienced."

It does not matter that he failed to say the words - Irene can see them sitting there, just under where their skin meets. It's enough to know that it exists - this raw sentiment that has them - Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes - lounging on a despoiled duvet, wrapped up in one another. Irene laughs, delighted. "And you have need of my _experience_?"

Sherlock brushes right past the innuendo, though the quirk of his mouth tells Irene that he's ignoring it, not missed it. Clearly the man has far more sexual expertise to his name than even she had initially given him credit for. "Who else is so ideally suited," his gaze runs across her naked form in a purposeful sweep, "to help me dismantle Moriarty's network?"

Irene traces one fingernail across the welts littering his pale chest, marveling that she put them there even as his words douse any rekindling fire cold. She's really going to have to have a word with him about inappropriate bedroom conversation. A thrill shoots through her and she knows she's already decided. "What makes you think I'd want to?"

"Because I took your pulse."

When she meets Sherlock's gaze, it is full of such calm certainty that she wants to snog him or slap him - how can he place such confidence in her, when she's hardly sure of herself? It's dangerous and stupid and it would mean letting her heart run away with her head.

It's not a hard decision after all. Irene presses her mouth against his, tongue sweeping over those deliciously smug lips, and takes the leap.

_Fin._


End file.
